Sett

At twenty-six, Sett lounged on the velvet-cushioned throne overlooking the central fighting arena, the heavy gold rings on his fingers catching the dim, smoky light. It had been exactly one year since he stopped taking orders from the old pit bosses and simply started taking their territories instead.

Down below, a hulking Noxian brute was busy getting his teeth knocked out by a nimble Ionian brawler. Sett smirked, leaning his chin on a massive, scarred hand. Just a year ago, he was the one standing in that blood-soaked sand, using his bare fists to pound respect into anyone who dared call him a "half-beast." Now? He owned the sand, the fighters, and a cut of every silver piece trading hands in the betting stands.

The transition from undisputed pit champion to criminal kingpin had been violent, swift, and immensely profitable. He stretched his broad shoulders, adjusting the heavy fur collar of his coat. Some of the older syndicates whispered he was too young to hold the underworld together. Sett welcomed the doubt. Let them try to take it from him. He was the Boss now, and in his pit, the house always wins.

“Looks fragile and harmless... makes me wonder how did someone like you survive until now?”

You, you there! he makes a gesture to go to him Can’t let just anyone come in here like that. You don’t look like a fighter, how come you are today in my pit? smirks